


the power of a cup of tea and the correct string of words

by vitriol



Series: a cup of tea and a bouquet of flowers [2]
Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Could be seen as shipping, Gen, Implied Child Abuse, and some graphic descriptions of decomposition and of corpses in general, but in a cemetery, if you think about it this is hurt and comfort, mental health stigma?, talk about grieving and grief, there is talk about death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitriol/pseuds/vitriol
Summary: “There are some stories that should remain untold.”Flat's journey through grief began long before he experienced anyone's death. He just needed to realize it.
Relationships: Flat Escardos & Jack the Ripper | False Berserker
Series: a cup of tea and a bouquet of flowers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934326
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	the power of a cup of tea and the correct string of words

**Author's Note:**

> if you think that i write this fast usually you are in for a SURPRISE. 
> 
> but realtalk, this chapter is a bit heavy on the emotional side. read at your own pace, and take care.

_ There was no rain in their funeral.  _

_ It was not cold.  _

_ Nor was it gloomy.  _

_ The funeral of the two heads of the Escardos family took place on a hot, July day, with the sun’s rays relentlessly shining down on the backs of the crowd that was clad in all black as a sign of mourning. It was a rather large funeral by all means, as the death of the tycoon couple had reached even a section of  _ The Daily Telegraph  _ and _ BBC News. 

_ It had been a violent death that no one would have expected. Murdered inside their own home, with police baffled at the lack of clues. _

_ Many cried. Some tears were for show. Others, a small minority, were true, tinged with an honest sadness that could not be faked. _

_ And, in the corner of the funeral home, a young man with hair the color of the sun and wide, owlish eyes the color of the sky watched the entire scene unfold like a movie that he could not understand.  _

_ \--- _

The start of this day is just like every other day for Flat. The alarm on his phone is supposed to ring at 8 a.m., but he had already been awake thirty minutes prior to that. The summer sun is high in the sky already, and he takes his time to open the window and let the fresh air in. 

Or, whatever air can come in from the busy main street that is right outside at his doorstep. Even in the outskirts of the Greater London area, places for rent did not come easily, and especially with a salary like his. But Flat could not help but smile, even through the sounds of the morning rush hour. 

_ It’ll be a good day, _ he thinks to himself, throwing on a vest over his dress shirt and putting on his dress shoes. 

Though his workplace was not somewhere that most people would be excited to go to, it does little to curb the enthusiasm in Flat’s step as he prepares himself for this new day. 

_ It’ll be a good day, _ he reminds himself, as he looks in the mirror of his small bathroom one last time. The person that is reflected upon it looks strange and not quite like himself, even though they share the same hair that is painted in the colors of the sun and those same owlish eyes that are the color of the sky. 

He cannot recognize the person that is in the mirror. 

Who is that? 

He smiles.

They smile back. 

_ Who is that? _

Flat can feel his legs shaking underneath him, and he has to grip the sides of the sink in order to keep himself upright. 

_ Who is the person that is reflected in the mirror?! _

Something rings. It’s distant, but near at the same time. Over the sound of his ragged breathing, Flat recognizes that it is his phone’s alarm. It is 8 a.m., and he is supposed to be leaving his place to be on his way to the metro in order to catch the train. 

But his eyes are fixed on his reflection on the wall, the reflection that is not him because it cannot it cannot  _ it cannot it cannot it cannot it cannot it cannot it cannot IT CANNOT BE HIM IT CAN’T _ **_IT CAN’T IT CA--_ **

The reflection  _ sneers  _ and he can’t take it anymore. 

“Professor?” 

At some point, Flat realizes that his knees must have given up on him, and now he’s on the ground, on the phone. He had managed to dial the number, but he cannot remember when or how. He cannot recognize whose voice is speaking into the phone. He can barely recognize who he is at all anymore. 

“Yes?”

The voice on the line is calm. Soothing but firm, like a lighthouse shining in the darkest sea. In comparison, he feels like a small fishing boat stuck in a storm in the North Sea. 

“I can’t come to work today.” 

On the other end of the line, Waver Velvet glances at the date marked on his calendar and the employees that were scheduled on this day. Flat is not one of those. “Take the day off. I’ll visit you later.” 

That is all that Flat needs to hear before he ends the call, phone slipping through his fingers, as his arm falls on the floor, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. 

The day is the 21st of July, and it is the second anniversary of the deaths of Chloé and Matteo Escardos. 

\---

_ He had seen his parents drowning in a sea of blood.  _

_ Their bodies had been tied to chairs, but, by the time their son had found the scene, their faces were an ashen gray from the blood loss. It reminded him of that one slasher movie he had watched with Svin last Halloween, where the victim’s head was attached to its neck by only a few threads of muscle.  _

_ His backpack fell from his hand and to his feet like it was made of rocks.  _

_ Though the scenes that occurred immediately after that are unknown to him, he remembers that he did not scream or cry.  _

_ And, if the words of his family members were to be believed, then he did not feel  _ **_anything at all._ **

\---

How or when Flat made it from the bathroom to the bed, he can’t remember. When he fell asleep, he cannot remember either. 

But when he wakes up, he is in the loose shirt that he wears to sleep every evening and his boxers. 

His body feels heavy, as if it were made of lead. As if there were two metres of ground between himself and the rest of the world. He feels like he is suffocating. But there had to be a reason why he woke up, right? 

_ “FLAT, OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR OR I’LL BREAK IT IN.” _

Ah. That voice. 

It must have been the slamming on the door that had woken him up. It almost brings a smile to his face as he musters the strength to push himself up and walk through the narrow hallway in order to open the door. 

When he does so, the person on the other side has their fist raised, ready to resume slamming on it. 

Flat smiles. It is empty. 

“Hey, Svin.” He mumbles. The voice that comes out of his mouth is as unknown to him as it was in the morning, but it is less frightening, at least. Though he supposes that it is Svin’s presence that he must thank for that. “Did the Professor send you?”

Svin clicks his tongue. “No.” He shoves a bag into Flat’s hands, which still feel like they do not belong to him, and makes his way indoors. “I brought you food, because I figured that you forgot to eat anything again.” 

He’s right. This is not the first time that Flat and Svin do this song and dance, and Flat imagines that it won’t be the last time either. He is thankful, but the words stay lodged in his throat as they often do on this day.

Flat watches Svin go through the hallway and into the small, studio apartment with wide, owlish eyes before closing the door and walking after him. 

They both sit on the bed, and Flat takes this chance to open the contents of the bag. There’s a couple of juice bottles, a sandwich, a salad, and a bag of his favorite sour gummy worms. He goes for those first, and Svin does not stop him, and, instead, reaches for one of the two juice bottles in the bag. 

\---

_ The gaps in his memory after the police arrive are like seas.  _

_ He had always had a bad memory, ever since he was a child. Throughout his memory, he could recognize the holes in them like punctured paper, like puddles after the evening rain. Small, minute moments where he would be looking at a different direction than he last remembered or holding something that he definitely did not pick up. Sometimes, rarely, he’d be in the middle of a conversation he couldn’t recall starting. But those were idiosyncrasies that could easily be laughed away by playing the fool at school. And they believed it, for what was he besides the class clown?  _

_ At home, it was a different story. _

_ Chloé and Matteo raised their child in an environment that went far beyond the word “strict”. They put him in the best schools in the country and gave him the best tutors that money could buy. His after-school hours were packed with extracurriculars, ranging from piano to violin to Mandarin to college prep. _

_ They had realized that their child was a genius from a young age, and would do everything in their power to show him to the entire world as their prodigal son. _

_ So, when their gifted child began to crack under the pressure, they felt...threatened. They were a family that was occasionally under the scrutiny of the camera lens and the harsh pen of the tabloids. Their success had been documented in a number of business magazines and even their child had begun appearing in small interviews. He was supposed to be their heir. Their prodigy. The completion of their life’s work and successes, all compiled into a person-shaped trophy for all to gaze in awe and envy.  _

_ So to see their prized work begin to slip from their grasp like sand through their fingers, they could not accept it. The couple did everything in their power to stomp out any of those strange quirks that made up their son. Psychiatrists were not necessary, and much less therapists. No one could know that their son was not the perfect, radiant child that they knew of.  _

_ But of course the word always gets out, and a couple of incidents at certain dinner parties was enough for the other family members to start asking questions. And when no answers came, they came to their own conclusions. _

_ The child of Chloé and Matteo Escardos was a demon.  _

—

It takes hours before Flat feels comfortable in his own skin again. 

Svin does not ask him any questions, instead choosing to fill the silence with talk about his own life. He talks about his second year at the University of Oxford, how his classes suck, and how his internship sucks even more. He’s studying Law, Flat finds out, which is a far cry from the Civil Engineering that he knew he had wanted to study, matching with Caules’ Electrical Engineering and Flat’s Software Engineering. 

They were all supposed to go to the same college and live the life that they were never allowed to live as children. 

Flat stares at his half-eaten salad, mulling over the future that would never happen, and Svin’s words begin to melt into a senseless stream of words. If life hadn’t been turned upside down the way it had been

“-at?”

\--and if his parents hadn’t died 

“-istening to me?”

\--and his existence had not been torn to shreds

“FLAT!” 

Between Svin waving a hand in front of his face and his yelling, Flat is pulled out of his thoughts as if doused with cold water. He jolts, turning to his childhood friend with an expression that is equal amounts confused and terrified. Any words that he wants to say are lodged in his throat once again, and he could only open his mouth like a fish out of water. 

Svin does not need any words to understand what Flat is trying to say. Such is the nature of their bizarre friendship that had 15 years in the making. 

Part of him wishes he could rip out that darkness and fear out of his friend’s heart. He wishes he could undo what was done to him, so that they could go back to being the duo that they were always supposed to be. 

But such a thing cannot happen, and Svin understands that all too well. He does not blame himself anymore either, for he knows that both he and Caules did everything in their power to stop the merciless wheels of fate from turning. 

He knows that they succeeded. 

But he also knows that it was too late. 

He slinks an arm behind Flat’s shoulder, and pulls him closer. It is a wordless reminder that, no matter how far away they are from each other, they are still friends. 

Flat closes his eyes, and he breathes out a shaky sigh into Svin’s shoulder, giving into the frustrated tears that he had been holding back since he woke up in the morning.

\---

_ Contrary to what most of the Escardos family will tell, the second person to arrive at the house after the police was not an Escardos. _

_ It was a Glascheit.  _

_ As most high class families went, they were not as largely known in the English community, but more so in the Northern European regions of Scandinavia. They were scientists and engineers of high-renown, pioneering clean energy equipment research that was used in certain regions of Norway and Iceland. _

_ Because of the Escardos’ ventures into multiple types of business opportunities, they had created close relationships with the Norwegean family. Because of that, their sons, who originally did not get along, grew to have a bond that was something between a friendship and a rivalry. Almost like brothers. _

_ So when he heard about what happened, Svin did not think twice about what to do. He did not care about any police presence or barricades. He did not care about the media, and much less about what his parents would have to say about this.  _

_ He cared about his friend, who had been happily hanging out with him just an hour before.  _

_ The boy he met, sitting down at the edge of the sidewalk with a blanket over his shoulders, was a shell of the person that had left his house, grinning from ear to ear.  _

_ However, this had not been the first time that he had seen him with such a blank expression. Usually a smack over the head or a loud yell in his ears would be enough to pull him back to reality.  _

_ This time, no matter how much he yelled and how much he shook him, there was no response. It was almost as if he, too, had died in that house. _

_ But it was when the cops came out of the house, telling him that he would have to go to the precinct to answer questions, that Svin felt his blood  _ boil _. _

_ “You think he did this?!” He barked, eyes lit with an anger that he could not contain. “He was at my house, damn it! You aren’t getting to him without getting through me!”  _

_ It had been the wrong words to say. Police attempted to hold him back, but it only riled him up further. He kicked and screamed and punched, adding to the chaos of the scene. He saw neighbors lining up by the police barricades, phones recording the scene to share with their families and friends to show how the police took control of a wild beast. He screamed until his throat was raw and he was shoved into the police car. At least he would have the satisfaction of having taken down at least a couple of those assholes before they managed to do that.  _

_ And, all throughout, his friend stared at nothing at all, as if stuck on a plane that was different than their own. _

_ When his family paid the bail the next morning, there was no end to their anger. The indignation that they felt over the fact that their son had embarrassed their family over someone that was  _ sick.  _ Someone that was  _ wrong.

_ But it did not matter.  _

_ They could all go to hell and burn for eternity, for all Svin cared.  _

_ They were friends and he would do everything he could to protect him. _

_ \--- _

Flat and Svin stick together until the late afternoon. They don’t speak much, instead deciding to watch a marathon of old Star Trek episodes that Svin knew that Flat would enjoy. They eat more of the gummy worms that he had brought, and Flat cracks a laugh when the sourness of the worms makes Svin feel disgusted, having to go into the kitchen to get a glass of water. 

It is almost 7 p.m. when Flat decides to stop. When Svin looks at him with a puzzled expression, he laughs. It still sounds grating in his own ears, like nails on a chalkboard. “You have to get back to Oxford, right? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but you basically skipped a whole day of class for me.You should at least get some rest back in your dorm.” 

The smile on his face is not all that convincing, but at this point, Svin knows that it’s better not to argue with Flat about certain points. He’s learned that, as social as Flat was back in school, he always needed more space than any other extroverts that he knew. So when Flat says that it’s enough, then it’s enough.

And from the color of his emotions, now a soft, pale yellow, Svin knew that he would be much better off than how he had found him in the morning. 

“Trust me, being here is a lot better than listening to that stupid Professor Clarke talking about his “lovely succulents” for an hour.” He rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the bed with a grunt. “If you’re not going to give a lecture, then just tell us the reading material and I’ll only see you for the test!” 

Flat laughs again in response, and the sound of it is bright and airy. “Maybe it’s a sign that you should try having some succulents, though. You’re pretty much allergic to most other plants  _ anyways _ _._ ”

Svin grits his teeth, his pale cheeks turning a bright red over the embarrassment of being called out in such a manner. “Oh, shut up!” Grabbing a pillow, he slams it over Flat’s head, who laughs again in response. “If you were there, you’d feel my pain!” 

And that’s when they both stop, taking notice of one of the many elephants in the room. 

Flat is the first to mention it, his smile both light and sarcastic. “You know I can’t.” He says. It has an air of finality to it, like he does not want to discuss this any further. 

Svin understands. 

But he doesn’t like it. 

Once again, he feels a burning resentment towards the world surrounding Flat. The world that had rejected him and cast him away. 

He looks away, and sighs. “Well, that just means I’ll have to keep visiting. Next time we’ll go see Miss Gray together. I’ve been missing her lovely presen--”

“You do know she’s dating Reines, right?” 

_ “What!?” _ The surprise on Svin’s face is obvious. And in response, Flat decides to  _ break into laughter _ , doubling over when his friend resumes slamming him with the pillows. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?! I THOUGHT SHE WAS SINGLE!?”

The laughter only increases with Svin’s mounting despair, and Flat has to tell him between laughs that,  _ no, _ Reines and Gray have been dating for  _ months _ , but that no one has gotten around to telling him. And somehow that only adds to the other young man’s despair, who dramatically flops back on the bed, crying to the ceiling that no one will ever love him.

It’s something so absolutely  _ normal, _ that Flat is almost impressed. The grin on his face feels natural once again, and he wishes that this moment would never have to end. 

But he knows it will end. 

It will always end. 

\---

_ There was a week gap between the murder and the funeral.  _

_ What happened between those two moments was only a series of flashing memories, passing too quickly for him to understand anymore. He remembers questions upon questions, prodding into him like hot knives with words that were closer to gibberish than actual English, and he remembers replying back in that same, unknown language that he could no longer recognize. He remembers being in the same place for hours at a time, the unforgiving clock on the wall being the only proof of the gaps in his memory. He would be in the middle of an unintelligible conversation, close his eyes and, when he opened them again, eight hours would pass. _

_ The police would tell him something, and he would leave. _

_ And when he least expected it, the process would repeat all over again.  _

_ But the true torture did not occur until the day of the funeral.  _

_ \--- _

In some way or form, Jack has made the visits to the cemetery part of their routine. 

Every time that they step inside the quiet area that serves as a resting place for the departed, they realize just how strange their routine has become. It is not something that they can do often, considering their schedule, but they make it a habit to visit at least once a week. 

But it was not the ashes of their sister, who were most likely spread around all of the area by this point, that they would visit, but the cheerful barista of a small café-slash-flower shop that served the unfortunate guests that wished to have a cup of coffee or buy flowers for their loved ones. 

Flat, who would constantly greet them with a smile from ear to ear and immediately brew them a cup of coffee the same way that he had done so on their first meeting. Black with no sugar. They would both take the time to chat about the week, sometimes about the latest television shows they were watching, video games they were playing, or any interesting cases that Jack had seen. 

Over the time, Jack had grown to realize just how smart Flat was, and how curious he was as a person. Even with his eccentricities, Jack felt like they could talk to him for hours and hours on end. And, sometimes, they did just that. 

So when they walk up to the café only to see someone else behind the counter, Jack immediately knows that something is wrong. 

“Mister… Velvet?” Gray eyes stare at the person behind the counter, who is none other than the same funeral director that had given them the ashes of their sister. With hair tied back in a loose ponytail and dark green eyes that threatened to see through your very soul, Waver Velvet was, for some reason, manning the counter of the café. “What...are you doing here?” Is the first stupid question they ask. “Where’s Flat?” Is the other. 

“Flat was not feeling well today.” Waver says in a matter-of-fact tone, as if that weren’t obvious enough. “And there are no scheduled funerals for today. But you never know when someone may come in for a cup of coffee, so I’ve taken over for him for today.” 

Seeing the director there, with an apron wrapped around his waist and preparing a cup of coffee...it was a bizarre sight, for some reason. 

And yet. 

The image of Waver Velvet manning the counter. Handing someone over a cup of chamomile tea during their most vulnerable time, and telling them words that would impact them for a lifetime...

Feels.

Just.

Right.

“It was you!” 

Silence. Jack immediately realizes that they spoke too loudly and, while there is no one else here, Waver’s eyes are now fixed on them, boring holes into their soul. 

Waver raises an eyebrow, eyeing Jack suspiciously. “Pardon?” 

Jack feels like they should back down. Perhaps prying into Flat’s life any further is not recommended, but they  _ know _ that something had to have happened to make him the way that he is. And they also  _ know _ that Flat would never tell them, even if they asked. Not out of a need for secrecy, but because he probably would never be able to find the words to do so.

The question they couldn’t answer, though…

Was why they wanted to know so badly. 

“Flat...he told me something when I met him. He told me, “Every person grieves on their own, unique way. But that doesn’t mean that you have to do it all alone.”, but I  _ knew _ that he had to learn from somebody. One...one does not learn that without having lost someone before. Right? So you taught him, right?!”

Waver studies them. No, it is far beyond merely studying them. His gaze is sharp as he analyzes Jack in front of him, the same way that a surgeon cuts through tissue and veins meticulously to get to the source. He is cutting Jack questions and intentions, trying to get to the  _ true _ source behind all of it. What motivates this person to learn so much about Flat? Friendship? No, even Svin knew that there were places he could not reach, and he never tried to either. Gossip? Hardly. 

...Could it be?

…

Waver nods. “Correct. Flat is someone that knows the pain of loss all too well. Though I suggest that you push away your desire for details on the matter.” He says in that all too familiar voice, that is firm, but not unkind. Almost father-like, even. 

“There are some stories that should remain untold.” 

\---

_ The day of the funeral was the most alone that he had ever felt in his life.  _

_ There were nearly a hundred people in total, each one there to pay respects for the couple that had lost their lives too early. And yet none of them paid attention to their sole survivor, the one that was supposed to be the true heir of the Escardos family, who stood in a corner of the room as he mindlessly swiped through his phone. _

_ No, that’s not right.  _

_ They  _ did  _ notice him. All of them did. _

_ Who could ignore him, when he was the cursed child that brought ruin to the Escardos family? No, no one had forgotten about his presence. Gazes of all ages and colors were on him, and the whispers that they muttered under their breaths were all about him.  _

_ But very few approached him.  _

_ And those that did, quickly understood why the rest of them did not. _

_ It was something about that smile he gave everyone…  _

_ There was no emotion behind it. It was as if the owner of that smile was not a human, but more like a puppet. His stare was hollow, and he did not speak once throughout the wake.  _

_ And yet, beyond the judging stares of his own family, one more person was watching closely. He just hadn’t noticed it at that point. _

_ Once the caskets had been lowered to the ground, most of the guests quickly lined up in their cars to leave as quickly as they could. They had business meetings and appointments to go to, brunches to enjoy, and riches to earn and people to forget. And yet, the son of Chloé and Matteo remained in the area, hovering around like a dog that had been left abandoned on the street. He could only stare with wide, owlish eyes at the mound of fresh dirt that now covered the final resting place for his parent’s nearly-decapitated remains.  _

_ This. This is the place where they will decompose. This is the place where their bodies will slowly bloat and break down, the acids from their body eating through skin and cloth if the worms do not get through the casket first. The eyes and brain go first, he knows, followed by the intestines and the rest of the organs. He figures that, in ten years time, they will be nothing more than bones. _

_ Just like everyone else in this cemetery. _

_ And just like he, too, will be-- _

_ “You.” A voice called out to him. It was stern, but not judging, and it made him turn around in slow surprise. “What are you still doing here?” _

_ With a voice that he could not recognize and through a mouth that felt like it was detached from his body, the boy gave a reason. Or perhaps, he didn’t. At this point, he wasn’t too sure what kind of words were and weren’t coming out of his mouth. _

_ But whatever he said must have been good enough for the man that had called out to him. His long black hair was tied in a neat ponytail, the tailored suit reminding him distinctively of something out of a movie. The man sighed, and looked to the side where a hooded girl around his age was waiting.  _

_ “Gray. Start cleaning up to leave. I’ll be there in half an hour.”  _

_ With a silent nod, the mysterious girl ran off with a small cat chasing after her.  _

_ Once she was gone, the man turned back to him. “You. What’s your name.” _

_ He gave a name. It was a name that they could just barely recognize as their own, but something about it made the man’s eyes widen just a tad.  _

_ The man turned away from him to start walking, but looked over his shoulder, his gaze firm. “Come with me,” he said. And so he did. _

_ As he blindly followed, he realized that the man had a nametag on his suit.  _

_ Waver Velvet.  _

_ \--- _

  
  


“I didn’t know that he lost his parents…” Jack mumbles into his cup. The taste of the coffee is similar, but somehow smoother. It’s clear that between Flat and Waver, Waver is the one with more expertise on brewing coffee. But the warmth of the coffee only weighs heavier on him, reminding them of that first meeting with Flat. 

Waver shakes his head. “He tries to make his past as little part of himself as possible. You see why he only goes by his nickname, right? Do not feel insulted that he did not tell you. If anything, it is his way of protecting himself, as we all do when we’ve been irreparably hurt. You have your own methods, correct? You blend into the crowd and go unnoticed. Being noticed is dangerous for you--and for Flat as well. Your methods are simply different.”

When they hear that, Jack’s instinctive reaction is to refute that claim.  _ Flat is nothing like me,  _ they want to say, because that was the case, right? Where they were awkward and gloomy, Flat was sociable and cheerful, and whatever they did not know, he would. 

But that was only around them, wasn’t it? 

They knew so little about that strange barista… how stupid of them to think that they knew more. The more that they think, the more questions that float into their head. They wonder how many of those Waver would be willing to answer, and how many would stay unknown to Flat only. 

“Why did you employ him, then?” 

Waver sighs, shaking his head. “It was the best way to keep him busy.” Jack agrees, but realizes that there’s probably an entire story behind those words as well that they can’t pursue. That they _musn't_ pursue. “And he makes a good cup of tea or coffee. Is that not enough?” 

\--- 

_ The man named Waver Velvet had guided the abandoned survivor into a small café. The place had a strange sensation surrounding it. It was like something that had been caught between the boundary of life and death, a frigid warmth that he could not understand.  _

_ Although he had been beyond understanding a while ago. All he knew how to do anymore was smile. Even if they sneered and even if they glared, all he could do in response to it was smile.  _

_ Only god knew what would happen if he stopped. _

_ “Sit down.” The man ordered. He did as told. “And wipe that smile off your face. No one in your family is here that you need to play pretend with.”  _

_ He hesitated. The smile, already frozen on his face, threatened to crack and shatter under Waver Velvet’s command. And the thought of that occurring...scared him. Aah, it scared him so much, but he didn’t know how to voice it. The words were lodged in his throat, and he could only give the man behind the counter a blank look and hoped that, somehow, Waver could read his mind.  _

_ And maybe, just maybe, that had been enough.  _

_ He could not remember hearing the sound of water boiling or plates being taken out, but out of the blue, Waver had approached him holding a teacup, which he put in front of him. The tea had a soft, aromatic scent that reminded him of apples.  _

_ He looked up.  _

_ “Chamomile. It’s supposed to help with the nerves.”  _

_ And while they wanted to say that such a thing was never confirmed and that studies regarding that are inconclusive, he felt like he had no other option but to drink the tea. And when he did, it was as if the warmth of the tea itself had managed to loosen his muscles. His smile fell and his shoulders dropped. He was not relaxed...but it was a step closer.  _

_ Waver, too, noticed that. “Tell me about yourself, kid.”  _

_ And, for the first time in what felt like forever, he did.  _

_ \--- _

The ride to Flat’s apartment is done so in near silence. Like every London evening, the rush hour is beyond terrible, with the M25 becoming less of a motorway and more of a car park. The newscaster on the radio spoke about the yearly heatwave affecting all of Europe and how, just like the year before, it would bring record high temperatures and that it would be advised to stay in shaded areas and drink lots of water. 

Jack glanced to their side. Every time they did, they could swear that Waver was angrier than the last time, and the thought was making them anxious.  _ Is it even right for me to be here,  _ they couldn’t help but wonder. After Waver had announced that he was going to close early to check on Flat, they had all but begged them to let them come with. 

And now, 30 minutes into their journey through the world’s slowest car exhibition, they couldn’t help but think how  _ stupid _ they were. What if they get there and Flat doesn’t want to see them? What if they realize that Waver told them about his parents and he hates the both of them for that? 

As they sigh and look at the cars that are parked along with them, they can hear Waver’s voice on the phone for what might be the third time since they had begun their journey. “Flat, I’m on my way, so you better be there when I arrive or I will dock your pay for the damn gas money!” A beat. “And take your phone off do not disturb, for fuck’s sake!” 

_ What a boss,  _ Jack finds themselves thinking. But if he’s making his way through all this traffic to check on one of his subordinate’s health, then he figures that they must mean a lot to him. They glance over at him, an eyebrow raised. “Does he do that often?”

Waver shoots them a glance back, exasperated but clearly worried. “What, not answer his phone?” He huffs, changing the station to from the news to music...and then back to the news. “Not really. But knowing him, he probably just fell asleep watching a movie. Honestly, that brat…” 

Jack watched silently as the man tapped the steering wheel incessantly, and turned to look at his own phone to check for messages. There were none. 

\---

_ He spoke for what felt like hours on hours on end.  _

_ In truth, only twenty minutes had passed.  _

_ He told Waver everything that he could remember. About the murder, about the heads that clung desperately to the neck, about the video games that he played with Svin and Caules on that day, and about the questions that the police wouldn’t stop asking him.  _

_ And about the holes in his memory.  _

_ There were so many holes. So many missing pieces that made the picture unclear and even led him to doubt his own story. Had he  _ really _ been playing video games with Svin and Caules?  _

_ “My parents didn’t like me, sir,” he said, the voice leaving his mouth jarring and sharp against his own ears. “I wasn’t the son that they wanted. No matter how hard I try, there’s so much that I can’t do, I can’t act the way that they wanted me to. And there’s so much I don’t remember, so-- perhaps--”  _

_ All throughout, Waver sits on the other side of the table, leaned back like one of the armchair detectives he had seen in movies.  _

_ And when he was done analyzing the evidence presented to him, he leaned forward, and asked a single question. _

_ “Look at me. Do you believe that you killed them?” _

_ The boy could not understand. How would this solve anything? “Sir, I’m not even sad that they’re gone. Don’t normal people grieve? I’m not normal, so it’s obvious--” _

_ Waver raised a hand to stop the boy. “Who says you’re not grieving?”  _

_ As if the veil were slowly lifted from his eyes, the young man stared at the director in stunned silence. And, after a couple seconds, he mumbled: “What?” _

_ “You believe that you aren’t grieving because you aren’t upset about your parents’ deaths, correct? From what you’ve told me, your feelings must be closer to ambivalence rather than any of the exaggerated sadness that I saw from your family members. If you’re using them as your point of reference, it is no wonder why you feel so warped in comparison. But your feelings are not the problem here. It is theirs.” _

_ What a strange idea. Not once in his life had he believed that his family had been in the wrong. No, he had always been taught to see family as the example to follow--if he was unable to do so, then  _ he _ was the failure. So to be told this with such conviction...it was almost hard to believe.  _

_ But before he could refute it, Waver continued. “You say that you are not sad about your parents, and that may be correct. In fact, I would not doubt it. But do not say that you’re not grieving. Because you most definitely are.” He paused, reaching for a cigar that he did not light. “Your parents ruined your life. And then, as one last injustice to you, those you call relatives made the police believe that you were their killer, even when you had a solid alibi. They took advantage of your weaknesses, and exploited them to their benefit.  _ That _ is what you should be grieving. Now, I’ll ask you again, and don’t you dare make me repeat myself a third time: Do you believe that you killed your parents?”  _

_ There was a long silence. He shuffled through his memory, trying to make sense of everything that had occurred on that day.  _

_ Did he?  _

_ Did he kill them? _

_ There was only one answer that he could come up with, as tears finally began rolling down his cheeks; the first step in his journey through grief.  _

**_“No!”_ **

\---

It’s only after an hour and a half that Waver and Jack arrive at Flat’s apartment. The building itself is somewhat aged, with no elevator, and by the time they reach the fourth floor, Waver is gasping for breath. 

“Goddamned stairs…” Waver groans, and Jack is not sure whether to stay still or phone 999.  “Flat just had to choose this type of apartment to piss me off, didn’t he?” Getting strength from god-knows-where, the director pushes himself back to an upright position before fishing in his pocket for something-- a key.

Jack is mildly impressed. “You have a key to his fl--” Wait. “--apartment?” 

Waver shrugs. “If I didn’t, he would have locked himself out a dozen times over.” Sticking the key in the doorknob, he twists it to the side. The  _ click _ of the door unlocking can be heard, and he opens the door without a second thought. 

By now, the sun has finally set. Only the last remnants of the summer sun shine through the window at the far end of the studio. Without making much noise, Waver goes through the door first. Jack follows, observing how Waver looks at every corner with little interest. The hallway is clean, and so is the bathroom. All that is left the living space, where they see--

Flat, focused on something on his laptop with what Jack guesses are noise-cancelling headphones. But now that they’re in his peripheral vision, he quickly looks up from his laptop, practically shoving his headphones off. “Professor!” He exclaims, but it’s not until he turns to see the person next to Waver that he  _ really _ looks surprised. “A-and  _ Jack?!  _ What are  _ you _ doing here?!” 

At the question, Jack feels their face grow warm, and not exactly from the heatwave. “I-I heard that you weren’t feeling well. And...you know, I  _ am _ in medical school...so…” with Flat’s gaze still on them, they find themselves unable to finish the sentence All he can do is hope that he’s not too angry at them for overstepping. 

But, after a moment of surprise, Flat laughs. “Professor! You should have told me that you were bringing Jack! I would’ve made tea for all of us.” 

Waver stomps his foot on the floor, and Jack has to mentally apologize to whoever lives in the lower floor. “I bloody well did tell you, you just didn’t answer your goddamn phone!!”

Flat laughs again, but this time it’s sheepish, shyly rubbing the back of his neck. “I-I guess I did forget about that, huh? But now that you’re all here, we can watch a movie or something?”

“Unfortunately I have to run home.” Waver sighs, shaking his head. “I just wanted to check if you had food and water, and it seems like Svin has taken care of that.” 

“How did you know that?!”

Waver glances at the bags and shrugs. “Those bags come from the Oxford platform. And Caules is in Romania, isn’t he? Either way, I have to go.” He turns to Jack, who was leaning against the wall awkwardly. “Are you coming with?” 

“Ah…” Jack looks up at Waver, and then at Flat, who’s staring at the both of them. They realize that they have a long day ahead of them and that the smartest thing to do would be to go home and get a full night’s rest. But… “I...think I’ll stay a little longer, if...if you don’t mind, Flat. We don’t live that far from each other anyways.” 

Flat’s eyes sparkle like they are made of the stars in the sky. “Really!?” 

“Yep,” They nod, and then turn back to Waver. “Thank you, sir...I appreciate it.”

Waver does not say anything. He gives one final glance in Flat’s direction, and sighs. “You’re back on your shift tomorrow. So don’t stay up too late just because you have a guest.” 

Flat nods, grinning from ear to ear like it was always meant to be. “Yessir! ”

With the door closing, Jack and Flat take a moment to stare at each other in awkward silence. Almost as if waiting for the other to make the first move in breaking it. 

…

“Do you like sci-fi or horror?” 

Jack pauses, considering the question. It’s not like they’re a movie buff of any sorts but… “I… guess I don’t have a preference?” 

That is enough of an answer for Flat, however, who happily claps his hands together and pats the empty spot on his bed for Jack to come over. When they do, they see that he’s watching Monty Python. 

“We’ll watch a comedy, then! You’ll love the characters, I promise! I’ve watched this five times now, and it still doesn’t get old.” 

Jack huffs through his nose, and that is the closest thing to a laugh that they’ve gotten in the past couple months. 

\---

_ As the young man sobbed into his hands, Waver watched on with an impassive gaze. He did not say anything, for he doubted that any usual words of comfort would do him any good anymore.  _

_ If the police were suspecting him, then he would simply have to work with him and his friends to prove his innocence.  _

_ If his relatives did not want to support him, then he would have to find a way to start from scratch. But, as he watched the kid’s crying figure, Waver realized that, perhaps, starting fresh could be one of the best things to happen to him. For that to happen, however...it would take quite a bit of work.  _

_ To think that he would go and take in another stray…  _

_ Waver couldn’t help but wonder what  _ he _ must be thinking, watching this scene unfold from some corner of the sky. _

_ With a sigh, he glanced at his watch and realized that the thirty minutes had almost passed. He figured that Gray would be waiting for him, ready to call an end to another long day surrounded by the dead and those who will eventually be dead.  _

_ “Kid.” He called out, standing up to take the tea cup away from the young man’s side of the table. The blonde looked up, blue eyes full of tears and sobs still wracking his shoulders. “Pick your stuff up. We’re going.” _

_ “M-me? Y-you’re taking me with you?” Why? Why would anyone do that for someone like him? Even as he was now, aware that he was not the culprit but, perhaps, a victim, he could not understand why someone would extend a hand his way. He watched, confused and still sniffling, as Waver went behind the counter to wash the tea cup.  _

_ To Waver, the reasoning was as simple as a clear day. “You’re not in a state to be alone right now. If I let you go back to face that nest of vipers you call a family, then I’d be no better than them. And besides…” He turns off the faucet, drying his hands on the washcloth. “Everyone grieves in their own, unique ways. But that does not mean that you have to face it on your own.”  _

_ Those were the words that would impact Flat for a lifetime. Even though it was all uncertain and cloudy, he realized, in that moment, that Waver Velvet was a man that he could put his whole trust into and not be betrayed.  _

_ And Flat hoped that, one day, he would be able to help someone the same way that Waver had helped him. _

_ With a cup of chamomile and a phrase to last someone a lifetime.  _

**Author's Note:**

> i've no words!!! i'm most likely going to take a break after this because i'm burnt out, but do talk to me on the blue bird app @jibetatravel because i love this au a lot lot lot.
> 
> also, i made a mention as to who waver has lost. who do you think it is?


End file.
